When I Wake Tomorrow
by omishiloh
Summary: Jason McCord misses his parents. Companion to Love Me As Though.


Author's Note: Companion to _Love Me As Though._ The McCord children need comfort, too...

When I Wake Tomorrow

 _Ungh…_

Jason McCord, declared anarchist and stout defender of the people's rights, finds himself wrapped around his sister. Through the blur of sleepiness he can make out Alison's head on his shoulder, and his oldest sister's leg thrown on her lap. His neck is stiff and his arm is tingling – it is behind Alison's back.

For a moment he doesn't remember, indignant that he would _ever_ be found in such a position. He doesn't show his emotions! Not since Mom became Secretary of State and with each day she's not home he finds more reason to blame the government for being illogical.

 _Mom._

He straightens and with his free hand slaps his face awake. Was she home? What of Dad?

On the news last night was a segment on Russia and the United States. The possibility of war if they, for the millionth time, could not negotiate peacefully their way forward. The reporter wasn't saying anything he hadn't already learned on the forums he scrolled through, or posted on. It wasn't that that had triggered a response.

It was what they were saying about his parents.

* * *

"Who appointed the Secretary of State? Her former boss, that's who. We've got to get rid of the nepotism in politics!" An angry blonde, one of his least favorite reporters, is arguing fervently, extensions shaking over her shoulders.

 _That's not nepotism,_ he thinks, clenching his fist. He had been typing away on his laptop at a response to someone online being wrong and hadn't thought twice about the news playing in the background. He had been used to the irresponsible media…until they started declaring outright lies.

"And let's not get started on Dr. McCord – if he thinks he can pull strings just because his wife is Secretary, he's got another think coming!"

He throws the remote at the television, hard, and it is the resounding crack of the screen that brings his sisters from the kitchen. They elected to cook, because Jason was - their phrase - "too busy destroying the internet."

"Jace?" It's Alison, peering at him with concern from over Dad's apron. Of course she'd be wearing it.

Stevie looks over her shoulder, ignoring the drip of the wooden spoon she's holding. She perceives first his black anger and then the screen of the TV.

She hands the spoon to Alison and goes up to the screen to examine it. "Huh," she comments. "You broke her face."

Indeed he has. The crack goes right in the middle of the reporter's forehead, to her chin, and it distorts her, squishing her eyes into her nose, and he can't help but wish that anyone who spoke ugly looked that way, too. At least it'd be a way of discerning truth.

He laughs, bitterly amused. And tears threaten.

It seems strange, to want to cry. But his Mom is supposed to be back from her quick trip to –to _wherever_ and he does not _at all_ believe his Dad is being interviewed for Religious Churches and Infrastructure Magazine or Dead Monks Speak Again or whatever he _says_ he is being interviewed for.

He misses the time together. The nights of fighting over what to watch. These days, he usually has command. He once spent an hour watching three different shows, expecting to hear Mom go, "Isn't one enough to keep up with? Oh, right, I had three…"

But she hadn't. Because she wasn't home.

Or how about the time he was supposed to go see a game with Dad? Not that he supported the corrupt infrastructure that produced violent players and who took all your money just so you could watch them beat each other up for the sake of a dead pig.

It would have been him and his Dad, arguing semantics over who _really_ should have won, and God, the referee was terrible, and the announcer could have used a course in Grammar 101. It would have hotdogs and a soda, over-priced, and tag-teaming the Secret Service in terrible jokes.

But they didn't go. Because Dad was called, saying something about dissertations and students and writing.

"Jason?"

Stevie is now at his shoulder.

"Come on, kid. We'll – we'll watch Netflix or something. We don't need to watch this – this crap."

They aren't really affectionate with one another, but her hand on his shoulder is comforting, and so is the squeeze she gives it.

Dinner is spaghetti and garlic bread, comfort food. And ice cream. Lots of it. A pint for each of them, plus the three gallon tubs left in the freezer that all have scoops removed. Marc from the Secret Service picked it up, and Jason offers each of the personnel a bowl.

They refuse, but as the siblings settle on the couch, he sees Marc slip into the kitchen and spoon out cones.

Stevie argues for a fun movie, maybe Disney, but he vetoes it. "We're too old for the subjugation of romantic tropes!"

She rolls her eyes. "Sometimes subjugation is fun if you want to watch something that isn't dismal."

Alison nudges him. "We could watch _Pride and Prejudice_." She has been on a period kick since the latest hair trend was elaborate styles. Tonight her hair was braided and held up by lots of pins. He had had to fish one from his spaghetti.

Sensing his sisters instinctively head for the ridiculous, he suggests something they can all agree with. " _Lord of the Rings_."

"I can do with some bad guys getting owned," admits Stevie. "I think we all could."

So they watch it. And if he leans into Alison when they talk about evil, she doesn't comment. She pats Stevie's legs when they are stretched into her lap during the "boring" scene at the Council. And if Alison tips her head back when Boromir dies, her eyes glassy, he doesn't say anything either, just reaches an arm around her shoulders.

They manage to finish the first film and get into the second before they fall asleep. His last thought is, confusingly, his mother wielding a sword and his Dad shooting arrows.

* * *

And in the morning, when he discovers he is on the couch instead of his bed, he is reminded again of their absence. He doesn't immediately see anything to indicate either Mom or Dad has come home and stifles a sigh. Removing his arm as gently as he can, he clambers from the couch trying to nip the anger and – help him – _sadness_ in the bud before anyone (who would, really, but he's too tired to think) can see.

He stumbles into the kitchen for a glass of water and freezes.

There, in the flesh, is his mother, tucking her phone away in her purse, a sly little smile on her face. He can't fathom why it's there or why on earth she is dressed in pajamas, she wasn't due back yet, and is she really standing in the kitchen laughing at his shocked expression? And who is that behind her, wiping sweat off his face, removing sneakers and leaving them right where Jason knows he'll trip on them?

"Mom."

"Yes."

"Dad."

"That's us."

" _Mom._ "

"That's my name, don't wear it ou-" she stops when she is encircled, willingly, by her son's arms. A moment later, he can feel his Dad's weight behind him, and he feels safe for the first time in months.

Later that day he gets a text from both his parents. His mom writes one word, _blackmail._ Attached to it is a photo of him and his sisters asleep, as the morning light comes in. His dad's addition? _You betcha. We love you._

He'll let them think he doesn't care, but as he changes his phone's wallpaper – and password, there would be _no end_ of teasing – he is grateful that when he woke up, his parents were home.


End file.
